I was often asked before my first trip to the West Bank and Israel
in March, 2010 if I was worried about my personal safety. I usually
dismissed those fears. When I came home, I was also asked if I ever felt
threatened or afraid. Only once was I afraid, when I went from Bethlehem
to East Jerusalem to see Hannan Awaad, the coordinator of WILPF in
Palestine. Hannan sent her favorite taxi driver to pick me up at a bed
and breakfast in Bethlehem that was surrounded by the wall on three
sides. Returning, we had to go through a checkpoint and the taxi driver
seemed very nervous. I asked him if I should have my passport ready, and
he said, "No. Don't say anything. Don't reach for
anything. Be completely still and silent." There was some talk in
Hebrew and Arabic at the checkpoint, but we did get through. The first
week of my trip I was with the Tree of Life Conference Journey and we
went through many checkpoints, some of which took considerable time.
However, I was with 36 other people in a big tourist bus and I felt very
safe.

Hannan took me to Sheikh Jarah, a traditional Palestinian
neighborhood where houses have been taken over by the Israeli Defense
Force (IDF), Israeli families have moved in, and Palestinian families
have been evicted. We drove up in her "good luck" rental car
and were stopped by a refined, elderly gentleman. Like the ancient
mariner in Coleridge's poem, he needed to tell his story. Hannan
said she knew him and she translated his Arabic into English for me. His
name is Khmis Al-Ghawi.

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Look at this lemon tree, he said. I planted this tree in front of
my house. It has flourished and brought so many lemons. How can I be
away from this lemon tree? I visit it every day and I visit my house.
Two years ago my family of four generations was evicted from this house.
For a year we lived in tents across the street. Finally, the other
family members found other places to live. Now, only I come back every
day to be here. I will never take compensation. No woman can know that
the house that the man builds is a part of him. I built many rooms in
this house. It is my life's work.

While I was taking Mr. Al-Ghawi's picture, an Israeli woman
with a stroller and baby came out of the house and walked down the road.
Then, Hannan took me to meet the WILPF women of the neighborhood:
Suzanne Abdal-Latif, the coordinator, and Ilham Zallum and Maysoun
Al-ghawi. They spoke of the houses that have been confiscated. One house
had seven families. Most houses have four generations in them. These
women spoke of what the house means to women: it is like her womb, the
place she keeps her children safe. Suzanne said that all her children
were born in this house and now her grandchildren live here with their
parents. As she spoke, children came in and sat with us and then ran
outside. "This house contains my memories and my love,"
Suzanne said. She started speaking in English, eloquently I thought, but
then stopped, saying when she gets emotional she must speak in Arabic.
"No man can understand what a house means to a woman," she
said, "It is safety; it is the family history; it is the family
love."

Suzanne and Ilham said that when the soldiers first came with their
tanks, face masks, and guns, they used to take the children and everyone
would hide in the basement. But now they are full of moral confidence
and so are not afraid. They come out of their houses and surround the
soldiers and tanks, challenging them. They ask them, "Why are you
here? Why are you doing this?" They use their cell phones and call
all their WILPF friends from all over the city to come and help them.
And their campaign may be working. The house confiscations have slowed.

I left with great admiration for these women and their work. I met
their daughters, who were all going to the universities. They are
members of Young WILPF, which is flourishing in East Jerusalem.

A few days later, I went to Jaffa, near Tel Aviv, to meet with
Aliyah Strauss, a member of Israeli WILPF. She told me about the work of
WILPF Women in Black and Machsom (checkpoint) Watch. The work Aliyah
does cannot be separated into different organizations. It is all for
justice and peace. Just one week before I arrived, she and another
checkpoint monitor, Ester, heard of a Palestinian village that had been
inhabited by the army and closed for five days. They travelled with
their driver deep into the West Bank, to the small village of Awarta. It
was open, but like a dead place. There were almost no men. Aliyah came
with her tags in Arabic and finally won the trust of the villagers. They
shared their stories.

Unfortunately, theirs was the nearest Palestinian village to a much
larger Israeli settlement. A Jewish family had been murdered in the
settlement of Itamar. (I had heard of this the week before and Hannan
said a disgruntled Thai worker was suspected). At first, however, the
closest Palestinian village (Awarta) was under suspicion. Awarta was
blocked from the world for five days--no one could enter or leave. In a
village of 300 people, 100 men were arrested and taken away. The IDF
took over several houses and, using dogs, ransacked almost every house.
The pharmacy was completely destroyed. The day Aliyah and Ester arrived
was the first day the village was open. Some of the arrested men were
freed and returned while Aliyah was there. Aliyah returned to her home
in Jaffa and sent a report to Haaretz, the liberal Jewish newspaper.
This was the first report the newspaper had heard. I was in awe of the
courage and importance of Aliyah's work.

The work of Palestinian and Israeli sections must be some of the
most difficult and dangerous work of any country. They are leaders in
the fight for justice.

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Dianne W. Ashley is a member of The Western Asia Study and Action
Group of Cape Cod WILPF.

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